


prompt replies

by robokittens



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Silicon Valley (TV), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 13:48:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16855144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/pseuds/robokittens
Summary: using ao3 as, how odd, an archive, and backing up some ficlets from tumblr!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> sorry 4 spamming ur tags there's nothing new here (unless you don't follow me on the tumbls i guess in which case: here u go!)

reserve asked: Kylux, things u said through your teeth :3

—

 

Officially, they’re having a meeting. This conference room is booked in their names; they’ve got it for an hour, although no one’s requested it after them. The translucent floor-to-ceiling windows have darkened to nearly entirely opaque: no one walking past could see more than ideas of shadows. Hux is never quite sure how good the soundproofing on these things is.

Inside, Hux’s belt buckle is undone and his trousers shoved down to his thighs. One of Ren’s gloves sits on the table, and it’s all Hux can see from his vantage point, shoved roughly down upon the conference table. Ren’s slick finger presses insistently inside Hux’s ass. Hux tries not to rock back on it. He wishes he had something to bite down on.

“I hate you,” he says through gritted teeth. Ren laughs, a hollow sound inside the mask. He works another finger inside.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: hmmmm also finn/poe + flying lessons (*coff*boning on board the Falcon) :D

“Name me someone who  _hasn’t_ wanted to fly this thing,” Poe says reverentially, running his hands along gears and levers and switches Finn can only guess as to the function of.

“Me?” Finn hazards after a moment. He looks out through the transparisteel of the cockpit: Rey and Chewie are taking a post-picnic nap, Chewie on his back, Rey curled up with her head on his furry stomach. It’s pretty adorable.

Next to him, Poe makes a dismissive sound. “You weren’t raised knowing how cool it was,” he says. His tone is almost … forgiving, like there’s something to forgive, here. Sometimes Finn thinks he’ll never understand Poe, not really.

Still. It was nice of the Falcon’s captains to allow them free reign of the ship for the afternoon, and Poe’s face is all lit up as he sits in the pilot’s seat.

If Finn is not mistaken, Poe may have just made a “wooooosh” sound effect under his breath.

Finn stands next to Poe, leaning into him softly. Poe smiles up at him, golden.

“Hey,” he says. “You wanna learn how to fly?”

“In the  _Falcon_?” Finn blurts out.

“Well,” Poe admits, “probably not. I can teach you when we get back to base, though. In the meantime —” He reaches out and tugs at Finn’s shirt until Finn is facing him, then tugs again until Finn loses his balance. He half-collapses on top of Poe in the pilot’s chair. Poe looks unaccountably smug.

“In the meantime,” he says again, voice low, “I can teach you a few other things.” He’s waggling his eyebrows.

Finn resists the urge to laugh in his boyfriend’s face, but only through kissing him instead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thefandomwing said: For the prompt request: Graves/Credence bondage play with Graves using magic to maneuver the bindings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grindlewald!graves so a big ol dubcon warning for this one y'all

**  
**“Hold your arms behind your back,” Graves says, and Credence complies. He holds one wrist in his other hand, presses them both to the small of his back. He shuts his eyes and tries not to shift from his position on his knees. **  
**

He’s on a bed at least, in a shifty No-Maj hotel — he knows it’s a  _No-Maj_  hotel because Graves had said so in a disparaging tone, explaining that they’d never be found there. It wasn’t true, necessarily; Mary Lou sometimes held her meetings outside places like this. But he didn’t say that, because Graves was stroking his fingers over the back of Credence’s hand as he paid for the room.

Credence has never been to a hotel before, not inside. He’ll pay for it when he gets home, he knows that; it’s still early evening but he can already tell he’ll get home too late.

Graves stands at the foot of the bed. He murmurs something that sounds like Latin, sounds like  _Incarcerous_ but Credence isn’t sure what that means, and golden ropes wrap around Credence’s torso. They don’t hurt, exactly, as they bind his arms to his back. It’s more of a soft, burning sensation, like sitting too near the coal stove in the winter.

“That’s good,” Graves says, and cups the back of Credence’s neck. He leans in and presses the softest ghost of a kiss against Credence’s cheek. Credence turns into it, seeking Graves’ lips, and with a murmur of laughter Graves acquiesces and kisses him, biting down lightly on his lip. Credence makes a low noise in the back of his throat.

“How do you feel?” Graves asks, and Credence tugs against his bonds. They don’t give, not at all.

“Fine,” Credence says, and it’s true; he’s uncomfortable, but he’s suffered much worse. Graves’ hand on his neck tightens for a moment before he lets go entirely, takes a step back from the edge of the bed. He hums thoughtfully.

“Let’s try something else,” Graves says, and his smile has a knife’s edge. He waves his hand and the bonds on Credence’s arms dissolve. “Lay down.” He pauses. “No. Get undressed.”

Credence can feel his eyes widen. “Undressed?” he repeats cautiously.

“Credence,” Graves says slowly, as though to a simpleton, “do you know what I want from you?”

“To find the child,” Credence blurts out. He’d taken his shoes and hat and jacket off when they got to the hotel; now, he fumbles with the buttons on his waistcoat.

Graves laughs. “Do you know what I want from you  _right now_ , Credence?”

Credence drops his eyes. “Yes, sir,” he whispers. He’s not sure if he’s meant to get off the bed; he lays his waistcoat down carefully next to him, slips off his tie, undoes the buttons on his shirt and lays that down too.

Graves nods at him. “Pants too,” he says

“Yes, sir,” Credence says again. He strips more efficiently this time: unfastens his pants and shimmies out of them, undoes his garters and slips off his socks. He hesitates at his underwear, but Graves nods at him, and he slips those off too. His cock lies soft against his thigh, and he’s very, very aware of it.

Graves leans in to cup his neck again, with both hands this time, turning Credence’s face this way and that. Appraising. “You’re a very pretty boy, Credence,” he says, and Credence can feel the blush rising in his cheeks.

His hands slip down Credence’s shoulders and cup his chest, the meager muscle there, and then he shoves. Credence falls backward on the bed, startled.

“Lay down,” he says, and Credence scoots up the bed, obliging. He puts his head on the pillow, which is surprisingly soft; he turns his face into it.

Graves says something in maybe-Latin again, and Credence’s hands fly upward of their own accord — of Graves’ accord — and are lashed with those golden ropes to the bedposts. His wrists tingle.

Graves climbs onto the bed and straddles Credence, walks on his knees until he’s hovering over Credence’s chest. Credence can feel the fabric of Graves’ pants smooth against his sides. He can also feel, mortifyingly, his cock start to thicken.

“Sit up,” Graves says, and Credence struggles to push himself upright with his arms tied. Graves takes pity on him and places another pillow behind Credence’s back, propping him up.

Graves strokes the back of two fingers down Credence’s jawline, traces his fingertips across Credence’s lips.

He drops that hand to undo the fastenings of his own fly and shoves his pants and shorts down, just enough to reveal his cock. It’s bigger than Credence’s, thick and intimidatingly hard and flushed red.

“Open,” he says, and taps Credence’s lips once. Credence’s eyes widen.

“Mr. Graves —” he begins, but before he can say anything else the tip of Graves’ cock is on his lips. He closes his eyes.

“Open up,” Graves says again, and Credence tries to relax his jaw. Graves slides his cock into Credence’s mouth, just a little, pushes in and pulls out again. It hurts, right away, but Credence doesn’t have a chance to say so before Graves is pushing in deeper.

He thrusts slowly into Credence’s mouth, and lets out a long groan when Credence swallows around him.

“That’s good,” Graves says, and thrusts in again, a little harder, a little faster. “Even if you can’t find me the child, you’re still good for something, hmm? You’re a willing hole. A pretty, pretty little hole.” He strokes Credence’s hair. The words don’t feel like a compliment, but Graves’ voice is so soft, almost fond.

He’s heavy on Credence’s tongue, thick, and Credence desperately swallows around him again. He can feel his gag reflex starting to kick in, but when he chokes a little Graves just makes a pleased sound and snaps his hips. Tears press out through the corners of Credence’s eyes.

Graves pulls out again, fists his big hand around his big cock and presses the tip of it to Credence’s lips once more. “Open your eyes,” he says, and Credence does.

Credence opens his mouth, too, to say something this time, but Graves shushes him with a whispered noise and the head of his cock just barely pushing past Credence’s lips.

“You feel so good,” Graves says, and this time it sounds like praise. “I just —” He strokes himself, leans back so Credence can see it. “Want — to keep you — for — my — self.” He grunts out the last word and then something thicker and wetter than tears is striping Credence’s face.

Credence gasps out an “oh!” and then it’s in his mouth, spilling over his lips, down his chin. He swallows again, compulsively, but the taste lingers on the tip of his tongue.

His shoulders are aching, his arms shivering in their bindings. His face is drying, turning tacky, and when he runs his tongue over his lips the taste is bitter.

Graves sits down heavily on the bed next to Credence’s legs. His cock is still hanging out of his pants, still intimidatingly large even soft, and it looks so smooth to the touch, and Credence wonders how it would feel in his hand. He wonders if there’s anywhere else Graves would like to put it. His own cock, small and limp between his legs, gives an interested twitch.

Graves leans over and cups Credence’s face in one big hand, whispers something else in Latin —  _Emancipare_ , it sounds like, and  _Tergeo_. Credence’s arms fall to the bed, and he lets out a surprised sound. His face, when he reaches up to touch it with trembling fingers, is clear.

“My good boy,” Graves says, and kisses him gently. Credence feels a swell of pride. He closes his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> imochan-fic asked: How about some super filthy rimming with one of them in lingerie idk how you feel about this but!!!!!!!!!! I D E A S about this I have them.

Hux tumbles back onto the bed and points one imperious foot at Ren.

“You,” he says, and his voice is somehow haughty and lush at once. Ren has never seen him drunk before. Ren has never seen anything like this. Hux has his hat off, his greatcoat, his boots; Hux is more naked than Ren has ever seen him.

Ren’s hands fiddle with the catches on his mask, but he doesn’t remove it. Not with the way Hux is staring at him.

“You,” Hux says again, commanding. “Undress me.”

Ren takes a step toward the bed, then another. He catches the proffered foot in one gloved hand; his grasp on Hux’s slim ankle makes his hands look huge, clumsy. The fabric of Hux’s socks is too delicate.

Slowly, he withdraws his hand; quickly, he peels off his gloves. He grasps Hux’s foot again, his long fingers circling Hux’s ankle. The fabric is even more delicate than he’d thought with his gloves on: a fine, almost shimmery material, light with a contrast toe and heel and — a seam running up the back. Ren pushes up the leg of Hux’s pants to get a better view, and Hux coughs, impatient.

“That’s not how one removes pants, Lord Ren,” he says. “You’ve got it backward.”

Ren makes a startled sound, almost a laugh. He lowers Hux’s foot to the bedspread; Hux’s knee bends, his toes curl. Ren’s fingers slide away from the fabric with a whisper.

He leans down, in. His hands feel bare, stripped of their gloves; he fumbles for a moment at Hux’s belt before he manages to undo it. Hux’s pants are fastened with a series of buttons, and Ren struggles with each in turn.

Hux laughs at him, but he lifts his slim hips off the bed so that Ren can slide his pants down.

Beneath them — beneath his pants, Hux is wearing stockings. It’s not a sock at all, that flimsy fabric that had felt so soft beneath Ren’s fingers; it’s stockings, a dark grey with a black backseam, a small band of black lace encircling each of Hux’s thighs. Ren’s breath catches in his throat.

Hux lifts his hips again, arches his back. Ren looks at his face, at his shut eyes and pale lashes, at the faint curve of his lip; Ren looks at the stark, sleek lines of his shirt, buttoned tightly to the collar. Ren looks at the outline of Hux’s cock, visibly hard through his — through his underwear, the dark grey edged with the same black lace as the stockings.

“It’s a matched set,” Ren murmurs.

Hux opens one eye, raises his head. “I can’t hear you,” he says, “through that terrible thing. Take it off. Let me see what’s under there — let me see what I’ve invited into my bed. Are you even human?”

“What would you do if I weren’t?” Ren asks. He leaves the mask on long enough to see the face that Hux makes, wrinkled nose and drawn-back lips, and huffs out a laugh. He thumbs at the catches, then, and it disengages with a hiss.

He knows what he looks like; he’s not sure what he looks like, through Hux’s eyes. He’s not sure what the widened eyes mean, the slight flare of his nostrils, the way Hux runs his tongue over his upper lip.

He leans over Hux to set his mask on Hux’s bedside table.

Hux reaches up and fists a hand in Ren’s cowl, pulling him down. Ren barely catches himself, a hand on the bed next to Hux, keeping him from falling down on top of Hux completely.

“Not a monster,” Hux says, “not quite,” and leans up to bite at Ren’s lip.

Hux kisses roughly and without much finesse, a surprise given his control and calculation in everything else. Ren gives back as well as he can, matching Hux bite for bite, his tongue behind Hux’s teeth.

He climbs onto the bed and straddles Hux, works a hand between them to grasp at Hux through the silken fabric of his underwear. His own robes pool over them, and he roughly shoves them aside as well as he can.

“You beast,” Hux says, and he sounds almost fond.

Ren drags his hands roughly up the front of Hux’s shirt, feeling the outline of his muscles through the fabric. It’s not such a harsh, utilitarian fabric — it’s not soft, as such, but it’s lost its starch through a long day’s wear, and it moves under Ren’s fingers. It’s only in contrast to Hux’s underwear, in contrast to his stockings —

“Do you always wear these?” Ren asks, and bites sharply at the underside of Hux’s jaw. Hux lets out a little gasp.

“Wear — ah! — what?”

“These,” Ren growls. He runs a finger under the lace top of one of the stockings. It’s elasticated. He snaps it, and Hux lets out a hiss.

“Most days,” Hux gasps out.

“Why?”

Hux doesn’t say anything, just arches his back again, laughs throatily.

Ren moves down the bed. He mouths over Hux’s cock through the underwear, feels the silk go damp under his breath. Hux makes a sound, a sweet little whimper, and Ren feels his own cock twitch in response.

“Ren,” Hux says, and Ren ignores him, licks at the slick slide of Hux’s underwear, leans down to mouth at his balls through the fabric.

“Ren,” Hux says again, breathy and desperate, and Ren allows himself a smile. He slides a hand down Hux’s leg, marveling at the whisper-soft touch and catch of the stocking against his roughened fingertips, and hoists Hux’s ankle up over his shoulder. Hux yelps. His other leg comes up to rest on Ren’s other shoulder, pulling him in yet closer.

Ren nuzzles at Hux’s balls. The cloth of his underwear is so smooth here, so thin, it’s almost like there’s nothing. He wants there to be nothing. He wants to rip these stupid, flimsy things off, he wants — he wants to take them off gently, like the prize they are. He can’t do either, with Hux’s thighs wrapped around his ears like this.

“Hux,” he says softly, and Hux moans beneath him.

Ren shifts his weight, moves Hux enough that he can pull aside the thin fabric of Hux’s underwear. Hux’s balls are tight and drawn high to his body, and when Ren gets his mouth on them for real Hux lets out a long, low sound.

“You beast,” Hux says again, “you marvel,” and then Ren’s mouth moves lower and he doesn’t say much of anything at all, just makes a keening noise as Ren presses his tongue flat up against him.

When Hux gasps out Ren’s name it sounds almost like a protest, but his legs tighten on Ren’s shoulders, pulling him deeper in. Ren licks his way into Hux’s ass. He can feel Hux’s thighs quiver.

It’s a terrible angle, and finally Ren growls and shrugs off Hux’s legs, flips him over so that his ass is in the air. Hux shouts, presumably at being manhandled like that, but his complaints turn into moans when Ren leans back in. He breathes on Hux’s hole through his underwear, listens to the noises he makes, before he drags them down; they catch on his thighs, won’t go any further with how far Hux’s legs are spread. Ren runs his hands up one stockinged thigh, down again, over Hux’s calf. He wraps a hand around Hux’s ankle, and Hux squirms.

“Ren,” Hux says, plaintive.

Ren makes an affirmative sound. He digs his thumbs into the scant meat of Hux’s ass. He pulls his cheeks apart and licks a long stripe up him, follows it up with shorter, stabbing licks that have Hux squirming back against his face. It’s messy, sloppy, Ren’s lips thick and wet against Hux’s skin.

One hand moves to tighten on Hux’s hip, then slides around to wrap around his cock. Hux mewls, bucks into it. It doesn’t take much, just a loose grip for Hux to fuck into, a counterpoint to the way he presses back against Ren’s mouth.

It doesn’t take much, and Hux is coming into Ren’s hand. Ren licks him through it, eases him down gently onto the bed. He sits up, runs a hand through his disheveled hair.

Slowly, Hux rolls over. His own hair has survived the onslaught surprisingly well. His collar is still done up, and he moves one hand to undo the top button. He’s breathing deeply, roughly.

Ren sits on the end of the bed. He’s not sure, exactly, what to do now. His cock is heavy in his leggings, but Hux looks sated.

“You’re still dressed,” Hux says. He sounds surprised.

Ren shrugs. “No fancy underwear. Nothing to see.”

Hux grins, and it’s sharp, wicked. “Oh,” he says, “I’m sure there’s something.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Graves secretly feeding Credence a potion that will give him intense wet dreams at night because Graves loves watching Credence whimper and writhe and moan in his sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was actually a prompt second-salemite got but i fucking stole it lol
> 
> noncon warning!

The first time — the first time wasn’t Graves’ fault. **  
**

That Credence was asleep in his bed, all right, that’s — and perhaps his motives weren’t entirely pure, when he’d offered to let Credence sleep in his bed, when he’d insisted, No, I’ll take the couch. The way he’d sat on the edge of his own bed as Credence drifted off to sleep, that was under the guise of Credence’s safety. But the way he’d carded his fingers through Credence’s hair — there was no excuse for that. No excuse for the way his stomach twisted at the light smile that played across Credence’s lips at the touch, at his sleepy murmur of happiness.

And no excuse, absolutely none, for the way he’d shut himself up in the bathroom and jerked himself frantically to the image, replayed and replayed in his head, of Credence’s unconscious whimpers and the way he’d twisted in on himself.

Graves had thought he was in pain at first, or having a nightmare perhaps. He’d put a hand on Credence’s shoulder and Credence had let out an unmistakable sound, a gasp almost high-pitched; a long, low moan that followed.

The second time —

“Here,” Graves had said, and passed Credence a mug. “It’s tea,” he’d said, “for pleasant dreams.”

And if Credence had loved the tea, loved the taste of the potion that swirled inside it, if his eyes had fluttered shut and his lips curved into a lovely smile around the rim of the mug — well, that wasn’t Graves’ fault, either.

So he sits on the edge of his bed. The fourth time, the fifth. And Credence writhes and moans and tosses and turns, and palms himself desperately under the sheets.

Graves doesn’t touch himself. Doesn’t touch Credence and doesn’t touch himself, not till he’s out of the room. Not till he’s alone and propped up against a wall somewhere, in his bathroom or his living room or his kitchen, or sprawled as well as he can be across the too-small sofa, one hand on his cock and the other fisted in his own hair pulling tight.

The pain is grounding. The pain is almost enough to distract him — isn’t enough. Not at all. Not from the thought of Credence biting at his own pink lips, not from the thought of Credence’s tongue darting out to wet those same lips, from the soft sounds Graves can still hear issuing from the open door to his bedroom.

To Credence’s bedroom, now; to Graves’ bed that has become Credence’s bed, the bed that Graves sits on the end of and watches. Watches.

Under the thin cover of the sheet, Graves can see the movement of Credence’s hands, can see the way one wraps around his cock — through the fabric of his nightshirt, Graves is almost certain. The way the other splays across his chest, dragging down the fabric of the sheet.

Credence bites his lip. Graves bites his own, bites back the moan that threatens to spill from his throat. Credence doesn’t hold back anything, tips his head back as his knees tuck up to his chest, his hand still curled around himself.

Graves is hard inside his trousers, painfully so. He murmurs Credence’s name under his breath. Credence gasps. Graves dares, dares to lean in. Dares to let himself brush a kiss across Credence forehead.

“Mister Graves,” Credence whimpers, moans. Curls in on himself. And Graves stands up. He leaves the room.

He doesn’t make it to the couch, doesn’t make it to the bathroom, leans up against the wall next to the bedroom door. He unfastens his trousers, fists a hand around his cock. He jerks himself quickly, hears the moans that spill out through the opened bedroom door. It’s not long until he’s finished, hand wrapped around the head of his cock to catch his come. He spells it away with an easy, wandless whisper.

Through the doorway he can hear Credence’s breathing, low and calm and even.   

He brews more of the potion. And the next night, he brews more tea.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> partypeacock asked: Idk if this is interesting to you but I'm really stuck on Jared introducing Richard to one of those consent checklists so they can find out what they like and Richard being emotionally stunted and sexually inexperienced having a really hard time of it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this prompt has been amusing the hell out of me for a couple days (sorry!!) now so [thumbs up emoji]
> 
> ok so a) i assumed you meant a kink checklist and not a consent checklist, so that’s what i ran with. they’re using this one: http://i.imgur.com/4uUCp22.png. they probably should be using colored pencils instead of pens, but w/e; b) you probably wanted something more serious but richard hendricks: perpetual virgin is eternally delightful to me so uh; c) i would just like to remind you of this post: http://reserve.tumblr.com/post/163296655830/tbh-richard-thinks-everything-that-makes-him-feel

“‘Locking clothes’?” Richard asks dubiously.

“I’m not sure about that one either,” Jared admits. He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Give me a moment and I can—”

“No!” Richard says quickly. “No. It’s ok. You don’t have to google it, we can just — assume I don’t like it. It’s fine.”

“If you’re certain,” Jared says. He puts his phone away.

Richard frowns down at the piece of paper in front of him. Physical features: irrelevant; he’s only doing this with Jared. Group sex: definitely irrelevant. He’s only doing this — oh, God — with Jared.

Blowjobs, okay; handjobs; swallowing. That’s all normal. After a moment, he checks off “hair pulling.” It feels nice when Jared touches his hair, so, extrapolating … His pen hangs in the air over “facials,” but ultimately he decides against it. That’s way too much.

He frowns at Jared, who’s sitting placidly across the kitchen island from him, his own pen in hand. They’re in his condo: nice, safe, removed from the rest of Richard’s life. Highly unlikely that any of the guys will stumble upon — oh, God — this.

Dirty talk, that’s an easy one; he’s at the point where hearing Jared say pretty much anything makes him chub up in his pants, which is —  obviously a problem, in his day to day life.

He goes down the list again, tapping his pen against the paper. He can’t believe Jared actually took the time and effort to print these out, but — at least he can shred this, now. Or he could, if he owned a shredder. Either way, at least they’re not doing it online; the internet is forever.

He ticks off a couple things in the “ass play” category — definitely not enemas — and almost nothing under BDSM, which probably defeats the entire purpose of this exercise.

“'Forced orgasm’?”

Jared just looks up at him and smiles before returning to his sheet. Richard swallows, hard.

Light bondage, sure; human furniture — he’s not even sure what that is, but it sounds painful. Masturbation instructions … He thinks about Jared just last night, whispering “Come on baby, let me see you touch yourself,” and the memory is enough to have him flushing scarlet. He checks the box.

The “Pain” section he disregards entirely, and everything under “Extreme” makes him feel vaguely sick.

“Clothing” … Clothed sex, definitely; zentai suits, definitely not. Diapers are obviously a no; locking clothes are still a mystery. Lingerie … he looks up at Jared and then quickly back down at his paper. He can’t stop the flood of images through his mind: Jared in stockings, himself in lacy shorts. It’s very possible his face is actually going to combust from all the blood rushing to it. His pen hovers over the box, but he slams his pen down onto the table instead.

“Okay,” he says after a moment. He rereads his checked-off boxes — all, like, ten of them — and looks down his scrunched-up nose at the paper. “I think — I got it. I’m done.”

Jared beams at him. “Are you ready to switch? Ha — no pun intended! Let’s see what you’ve got here.” He pulls Richard’s paper toward himself, pushing his own to Richard.

Richard looks at Jared’s checklist, and far from the riotous blush of a minute ago, he can feel all the blood drain out of his face. Jared has checked off … a lot of boxes. A lot. Does that — did he mean to check off “anal fisting”?

“Um,” Richard says.

“Oh,” Jared says dismissively, self-effacing. “It’s not all things I’ve tried. Some of it is things I’d like to try with you!”

“Um,” Richard says again.

Slowly, as if not to startle Richard, Jared gets up. He circles the island, coming behind him, and wraps his arms around Richard’s shoulders. Richard leans back into him. “We don’t have to do any of that,” Jared murmurs. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“It’s just,” Richard says. He can’t quite keep the whine out of his voice; he knows he sounds pitiful. “There was no box for kissing.”

He cranes his head back and Jared leans in, their lips brushing softly.

“Is that your kink?” Jared asks. He sounds amused.

“You’re my kink,” Richard says. It’s — a dumb thing to say, and he knows it, and he laughs like he’s joking. He twists around in his seat for better access, pulling Jared tighter up against him. “Just you,” he says, and he’s not joking, not joking at all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one is just a whole bunch of jarrich drabbles bc i felt silly having like ten separate 100 word chapters hahaha

**Anonymous asked: 4, aka anon sex, jarrich**

The bathroom stall is somehow cold and humid at once as Richard shakily unbuttons his fly. This is — he can’t believe he’s sunk this low. He can’t believe he actually — that he followed a craigslist ad to a — he can’t even believe glory holes are a real thing. He spares a moment to pray to whatever’s up there that entrapment is, in fact, illegal.

The stall door next to him opens. It shuts again. There’s a knock on the facsimile of a wall that separates the stalls. Richard knocks back, and a pair of khaki-covered knees fall to the floor.

 

—

 

**Anonymous**   **asked:** **Jared/Richard, 88**

(sloppy seconds, y'all.)

Jared’s thighs are still raw, beard-burned and tender, when Richard nudges them apart.

“Look at you,” Richard says, his voice low. “Look how — filthy you are. Fucking — look how he left you. You’re still — still dripping, Jared, did you know that? Did you ruin your nice slacks?” He spits the last word.

“N-no,” Jared gasps out.

Richard shakes his head. “If it had been me, I’d have — have ruined them. More than ruined them. I’m going to ruin you,” he says, like a promise. He thrusts two dry fingers roughly into Jared’s hole, and Jared’s body makes room for him.

 

—

 

**itsevidentvery asked: 2+jarrich**

(delayed gratification/teasing!)

Jared hums thoughtfully and pulls his dick away from where it had barely pressed against Richard’s entrance. “No,” he says, “I don’t think so.”

“What —” The word catches in Richard’s throat as Jared reaches to wrap a hand loosely around his dick, the unfairly large circle of his fingers providing just a hint of pressure. Richard thrusts uselessly into it.

Jared curls over him to whisper in his ear. “Have you been good, Richard? Do you — deserve me?”

Richard honest-to-God whimpers. “Please,” he says — whines, really.

He can feel the curve of Jared’s smile. “No,” Jared says. “Not quite yet.”

 

—

 

**antiquitea**   **asked: 6, jarrich! ♥️**

((barebacking) this one didn’t want to be smut despite my efforts :( )

 

He hasn’t always had the option of being careful, but he’s always been lucky. He knows that’s what it is — luck. Luck that’s kept him clean, luck that’s kept him alive.

Luck, he thinks, that brought him Richard.

Richard, who hasn’t always been careful, either.

So it’s with some degree of trepidation that he holds aloft the condom instead of ripping it open. It’s a moment before Richard turns and looks at him over his shoulder, impatient.

“I was thinking,” Jared says delicately, “that we might —”

Richard’s eyes widen. “Yes,” he breathes out. “Please.”

The condom falls to the floor.

 

—

 

**clutchhedonist asked: MAN OH MAN, can we get some no. 11 jarrich in here, because I feel that is ALWAYS RELEVANT**

(ok so a) i wrote this and then came back and realized it was you who requested it and now i’m like, oh shit, high standards; b) this got a little away from me so it’s a DOUBLE drabble; c) is this even body worship who the fuck knows, what the fuck even is this, i sure don’t know)

 

Jared, naked, is very nearly a flat plane, broken only by the sweet curve of his dick and the slight concavity of his chest. The former, Richard has come to love; he could spend hours kissing, licking, sucking it, and the feeling of it inside him is indescribable, like nothing else. It’s the latter, though, that’s giving him ideas.

“Richard,” Jared protests half-heartedly as Richard straddles his chest. A smile graces his lips, and Richard bends himself in half to capture it with his own.

His slicked dick fits neatly into the little divot of Jared’s chest.

“Richard,” Jared says again, but this time it’s gasped, punched out of him.

“Perfect,” Richard says, “perfect. Look at you. Made for me.” He’s breathing hard, thrusting shallowly. He’s trying not to come; knows it’ll be all over Jared’s face if he does now. But it’s — that’s not. An entirely unappealing thought. His hips stutter forward. He bends himself down again, presses a hand to either side of Jared’s head and brings their lips together.

Jared moans against him, beneath him, and Richard smiles. “Perfect,” he says again. “You’re so — god, Jared you feel so good. Just like this. Perfect. Just for me.”

 

—

 

**Anonymous asked: 87, jarrich (Preferably size queen Richard bc he’s extra af)**

(size kink/size queen [peace sign emoji])

 

“Please,” Richard begs. “Please, Jared, I need —”

“Hmm?” Jared looks up at him, innocent, from between his legs. He looks — pious, pure, very much like he’s not in the middle of working an obscenely large dildo into Richard’s ass. Richard tilts his hips up, bears down, tries to get more of it inside him.

Jared tsks. “Patience,” he says, smiling serenely. He pulls the dildo out, almost entirely. Richard keens.

“More,” he says. “Please, Jared, please, I — I need — I need you to — Please.”

“Patience,” Jared says again. He drizzles more lube onto the dildo and works it forward slowly.

 

—

 

**Anonymous asked: Jarrich 1 with omega Richard who has been taking supresents for a long time, but has stopped working due to his stress. (I love your blogs OMG)**

(still working on these, slowly but fucking surely. and holy shit, i wrote a/b/o. just a hundred words of it, but. i never thought this day would come.)

Richard’s slick between his thighs in a way he hasn’t been in — years, fucking years. He closes his eyes, wills himself to focus. But. He’s going to need to take a break soon, not a bathroom break but a lock himself in his bedroom break, a wish for soundproofed walls break. A days long break, maybe. He took his meds, right? He knows he took his fucking meds. So how —

Across the room, Jared turns his head up, sniffs the air questioningly. It’s a subtle gesture, but — unmistakable. Richard flushes, squirms in his seat, and turns back to his computer.

 

—

 

**Anonymous asked: Jarrich 84?**

(sex toys/plugs)

 

The amazing thing is how graceful Jared is — remains. If it were Richard he’d be fucking useless, squirming in his seat if he could manage to sit down at all. Jared got through a fucking board meeting. Insisted on doing it on a day with a board meeting, just to — prove he could? Maybe? Richard doesn’t understand his motivations, but.

He understands the way that Jared looks, the firm countenance, the steady hand. The easy smile, when he turns it on Richard. The way he’d looked, jaw-dropped and awestruck, as Richard slowly, ever so carefully, pushed the plug inside him.

 

—

 

**Anonymous asked: #92 Jarrich!**

(swimming pool/hot tub)

It could be perfectly innocent: the two of them sitting poolside, Jared cross-legged, Richard with his pants rolled up around his knees and his shoes on the ground next to him, calves in the cool water, hoodie drawn tight to protect him from the cold. Richard has a beer. Jared has a LaCroix. If someone were to look closer, they’d see the way Richard lists into Jared’s side. The way their fingertips barely overlap on the cold concrete. The way Richard tilts his chin up, eyes wide, and the way Jared closes the gap between them, bringing their lips together.

 

—

 

**misoka58 asked: Sorry forgot adding a pairing! 26. Leash and collar and jarrich, if you are interested!**

(“if i’m interested” ahahahaha lord above am i ever)

Jared’s steady fingers tremble as they hook the lead into the ring on Richard’s collar. Richard makes a small noise like he’s been shocked, and he flinches, or shivers maybe. Jared opens his mouth to say something — to say Richard’s name, perhaps, but Richard shakes his head and Jared quiets.

He picks the leash up off the floor, grasps the loop at the end, and slowly rises from his crouch. Richard kneels at his feet, eyes half-shut, jaw slack. He leans in, nuzzles his head against Jared’s knee. Jared runs a hand through Richard’s hair.

“Good boy,” he says.

 

—

 

**animesemplemcpherson asked: jarrich, #5**

(ok this isn’t the dirtiest of dirty talk but i gave it a go hahaha)

“Please,” Richard gasps out, “can you —”

“Can I what?” Jared’s voice is low, teasing. “Can I touch you — here?” The tip of one finger traces the underside of Richard’s dick, feather-light. “Or here?” His hand traces lower: Richard’s balls, his perineum, the tight rim of his asshole. Richard gasps again. “Can I — suck you off? Can I — oh, Richard, do you want to know if I can fuck you?”

“Oh,” Richard says, a strangled sound. “Jared, fuck —”

Jared smiles, presses his curved lips to the join of Richard’s neck and shoulder. “If that’s what you want,” he says, a promise.

 

—

 

**joycecarolnotes asked: #9, j/r**

(public play! a double drabble, bc i was Feelin this one. not 100% satisfied, but such is the limitation of the form hahaha)

  
Richard doesn’t — doesn’t take the bus, doesn’t like taking the bus. Especially not when it’s crowded like this, people packed together. He doesn’t — touching strangers isn’t. A thing. That he’s into, particularly.

But it’s not a stranger touching him, not now. It’s Jared: Jared’s fingers hot on his hip through his jeans, Jared’s fingers gripping him, pulling him back against — God — against Jared’s cock. Richard can feel it, hard, pressed up against him.

The bus takes a sharp turn, and Richard’s whole body crowds against Jared’s. He can feel Jared’s hips twitch. He can feel Jared exhale hot on the back of his neck.

“Richard,” Jared breathes against him.

“Yeah,” Richard says, distant, his voice lost in the din of the bus at rush hour. He can barely manage to vocalize anything; that takes thought, and his brain is busy hissing no, and stop, and yes yes yes keep going. Jared’s fingers tighten on his hip, draw him in somehow further.

“What’s, um,” he says, louder. “Our stop. Are we — getting close.”

“Not yet,” Jared says. His voice is mild in Richard’s ear but Richard can hear his meaning, can hear how much more Jared has in mind for him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> me: well now i’m on my way home from the bar and i can’t stop thinking about jared rimming richard until he cries so like
> 
> @reserve : Yikes okay
> 
> me: omg why are you still awake, i didn’t wake you up did i??
> 
> reserve: Nope. I am going to bed tho so please tell me more for the AM
> 
> me: hahaha good night!!! ❤

me: i’m just like. richard has never experienced this before, OBVIOUSLY, has only the vaguest idea that that could even be an erogenous zone — there’s a lot, honestly, that he’s realizing he didn’t know about his own body. fortunately jared is a very, very patient teacher

so when jared pushes him gently to lay face-down on the bed, puts a pillow under his hips to cant his ass up, richard has just. no idea what’s happening. he’s still reeling from the blowjob jared gave him earlier; he’s had time to recover, he’s had a cup of tea from the hot plate, he’s doing ok, but now jared has him naked again and he’s not sure what to expect.

how did you learn all this, he keeps asking, how do you know all this, and jared keeps shushing him, little kisses and shakes of his head. he’s not sure if jared’s sheltering him from the truth of his often questionable past or if he’s trying to reassure him of the irrelevance of past lovers; for his own sake, richard decides it’s the latter.

lovers. it’s a weird word, doesn’t sit right on his tongue or in his brain, but it’s what they are, he supposes.

they’ll have a talk about it at some point, he assumes — jared will want to define things clearly — but for now he’s face down on jared’s bed and the feeling of jared’s finger circling his rim is almost familiar at this point. not quite something he’s used to, but — a known entity, at least.

he gasps out jared’s name and he can feel as much as hear jared hum in response, a vibration against his skin.

stay still, jared whispers into the small of his back, and that’s enough to make richard tense up already. he can feel jared’s laughter, just as much as he can feel jared’s hands grip his hips. relax, jared says, and his hands drag down richard’s body: his hips, his ass, his thighs, and up to his ass again. i’ve got you, jared says, and somehow it’s that that makes richard finally relax.

the first swipe of jared’s tongue across richard’s hole is shocking, cold and warm at once, slick and surprising and enough to make richard yelp. jared shushes him, and richard can hear his amusement in the sound. it’s — fond, though. he knows. he hopes.

jared keeps licking at him, slow and steady: his perineum, his balls, and his — jesus, his asshole, jared is licking his asshole over and over. it feels filthy and taboo and fucking — incredible, and richard’s not sure he’s ever been this turned on in his life.

please, he gasps out, and he’s not sure if jared can even hear him or if he’s remotely intelligible but the strokes of jared’s tongue move faster, short and stabbing, and richard squirms against the bedsheets.

when jared pulls away, richard can feel his saliva cooling there. the ambient air of the room, usually hot with servers and with sex, feels suddenly chilled. he feels uncomfortably slick, considering jared hasn’t even pulled out the lube.

fuck me, richard begs, and jared hums in response. he’s sitting at the edge of the bed; richard can feel the dip in the mattress but he can’t feel the buzz of jared’s breath against his skin and he feels lost. fuck me, he says again.

the bed shifts: jared settling back between richard’s legs. richard lets out a deep breath, a sigh of relief. jared laughs softly.

jared’s hands are always big but they feel huge now as they cup his ass, fingers digging in, spread and spanning it entirely.

he leans in low, pulls apart richard’s cheeks with his thumbs, and blows gently against his hole. richard whimpers.

you want me to fuck you? jared asks. the word sounds dirtier in his voice than richard’s own; he doesn’t say it often and it’s like lightning through richard’s body every time, electric, so arousing it’s almost painful.

please, richard whispers. please.

jared licks another long stripe over richard’s hole and richard keens, buries his face in the pillow but it’s not quite enough to muffle the sound. he can feel tears burning at the corners of his eyes.

gonna fuck you, jared says, low and dirty. his tongue laves over richard again, again and again, and richard squirms. the bedsheets are rough against his dick. if jared were to touch him right now he’s pretty sure he would explode; honestly he might come even without jared touching him. he’s never — he never thought —

please, he says again.

jared presses a kiss to richard’s asshole, as sweet and chaste as his tongue had been dirty, and richard’s whole body twitches. okay, jared says. okay. are you ready?

richard laughs, breathless.

as i’ll ever be, he says, and he can feel jared’s smile.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one goes out to the sv squad discord :kissing_heart: they didn’t really … ask for it … but here it is anyway! in celebration of my second favorite holiday!!!

“Jared?” June pokes her head into Richard’s office because — of course — Jared is in Richard’s office when the flowers arrive. Richard’s administrative assistant — assistant! Richard still can’t believe he has an office, much less an assistant — makes her way into the room, a bouquet of flowers cradled in her arms. It’s — big. There are a lot of roses involved. “There you are,” she says. “These came for you.”

Jared’s eyes light up. “Oh, goodness,” he says. He looks at Richard. Richard looks down at his paperwork.

“Richard,” Jared says, “someone bought me flowers!”

“Wow,” Richard says, a little flatly. “That’s — great, Jared. Great. Can we — do I need to sign here, or —”

Jared’s smile visibly falters, which is — not what Richard was going for. With the flowers, or in general, because he loves Jared’s smile, and —

“June,” Jared says quietly, “could you put them on my desk? Thank you so much. I’m so sorry, I’d do it myself, but —”

June shushes him. She’s a little older, brown hair going grey and smiling with her eyes even when she’s trying to look serious; she is exactly the kind of person who would love Jared, and they get on famously. Although Jared gets along with most people. It’s — Richard tries not to hate it. But.

“Don’t even worry about it, Mr. Dunn,” June says. She winks, a little cheekily, and bustles off to, presumably, put the flowers in Jared’s office.

Jared perks back up as he turns back to the papers strewn across Richard’s desk. He leans across the table, half-turning the sheet of paper Richard is looking at so that he can see it. He’s so close that Richard almost — he almost —

“You should read the card,” he says abruptly.

Jared tilts his head, quizzical.

“On the flowers,” Richard clarifies. “There’s — I mean, there’s probably a — a card, right? That’s a thing? With flowers?”

Jared laughs. “It might be! I don’t know, I don’t get flowers very often. Or, well —” he lowers his voice, as if he’s sharing a secret. “At all, really. One time I took home a bouquet from my friend Norman’s funeral and pretended that — Oh, but nevermind. Yes, if you’d just sign right there, and then — I think on the next page — Yes, right there.”

“I would have thought, uh — that you get flowers all the time. Since you. You know. People like you so much.”

“Oh Richard, that’s so kind. But, no — not at all! It’s a little —” Jared looks around, like perhaps there’s someone in the office listening. But there’s no one, no one else, just the two of them.

“Romantic,” Jared says finally. “And I don’t have much time for romance! We stay very busy, don’t we?”

“Um,” Richard says. “We — yes, very busy. Much … working. But if someone was — you know — interested. Romantically. Would you — I mean — someone bought you flowers.”

“It was probably Susan, or Edith. At our last book club meeting we were talking about — oh, but I shouldn’t bore you. It’s just that Valentine’s Day is right around the corner.”

“Tomorrow,” Richard says, as if Jared can’t keep track of the date. “It’s — tomorrow. But. Not that I. Do you have, uh. Plans?”

“After work? Well, I thought perhaps I’d have a glass of wine and watch a romantic movie — that’s what one does, isn’t it, if one is single on Valentine’s Day? Perhaps eat some non-dairy ice cream?” He laughs, but he looks — sad, almost? Maybe? Richard isn’t sure if he’s just. Projecting.

Richard looks down at the papers on his desk. “What if, uh, the person who got you the flowers — what if they wanted you to go out? With them?”

Jared doesn’t say anything, just levels Richard with a long, solemn look. Finally, he clears his throat. “Did you have any more questions with this?” he asks, gesturing to the desk. “I think with those two signatures we’re pretty much set, but if there’s anything you’re unsure of —”

“No,” Richard says quickly. “No, I think I’m — I’m good. Jared. Thank you.”

He tries to smile, but he’s not quite sure how well he’s pulled it off; his mouth feels awkward on his face, stretched uncomfortably.

“Perfect,” Jared says. He stands up, the long line of his body unfolding. He reaches down and gathers up the bundle of papers, tapping them neatly on the desk into a uniform stack.

Richard watches as Jared walks out the door, shuts it quietly behind himself. He puts his elbows on the table, puts his head in his hands. This was … a stupid idea. The worst idea.

He can’t remember if he signed the card or not. Or — not signed, he ordered the flowers on the internet, but — does the card have his name on it? Is there, oh God, a receipt? They wouldn’t have sent Jared a — no, no, it would be anonymous. Richard is sure of it.

Unless he signed the card.

He groans, loudly; he’s glad he has an office to himself, that there’s no one to — to ask stupid questions. Like what’s wrong.

Slowly, his elbows splay out until his head is flat on his desk. It’s an incredibly uncomfortable position — his nose is smushed against the desk, the edge of his keyboard is digging into his forehead — but the discomfort gives him something to focus on. Something better than — something other than —

He should do some work. Surely there’s work to be done; Pied Piper isn’t going to run itself, after all. He has to — very, very busy. Yes.

Slowly, Richard raises his head from the desk. He looks at the closed door. He looks down at his laptop. He checks his work email, his personal email, the Google alert he certainly doesn’t have for himself.

There’s a knock on his door, and then it pushes itself open. Or — Jared pushes it open. Because it’s Jared, standing in the doorway, a look on his face like Richard’s never quite seen before.

“Richard,” Jared says slowly, quietly. He walks inside and, just as slowly and quietly, shuts the door behind himself. He walks over to Richard’s desk, puts his hand on the back of the chair facing him.

“Jared,” Richard says. He manages to get Jared’s name out without stuttering, but — only barely. Jared looks so — so serious. So intent.

Jared draws in a long breath. “Richard,” he says again. “The flowers —”

“I’m sorry,” Richard says quickly. Before Jared has a chance to finish his sentence. “I know it’s — and workplace regulations, and — I just never — I know you don’t — but you. Deserve something nice.”

“They’re very nice,” Jared says. He looks at Richard, looks away. They don’t — can’t quite make eye contact. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry,” Richard says again.

Jared looks at him, finally, pins him in place with his gaze. “Why are you sorry? Did you not mean — oh, I’m so sorry if I’m misinterpreting your meaning, but …” He trails off. He’s frowning, just slightly, and Richard can’t handle it. Jared’s smile is so nice, and — and he wants to see it all the time. Selfishly, but. He does.

He takes a breath, takes a deeper one. “So, uh,” he says. “What are you doing? Tomorrow? Would you like to — I mean, if you —”

“Oh Richard,” Jared breathes out. He’s smiling. “I’d love to.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh hi!! have some pg-13 rated nonsense inspired by 5x03. i feel like i’ve written something exactly like this before but oh well.

Out in the living room Jared is making noises.

They’re — they’re not loud noises or anything; Richard can ignore them. Can almost ignore them. Can just about ignore them, if he squeezes his eyes shut tight and hums under his breath and maybe, as a last-ditch effort, presses his hands to his ears.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and props himself up in bed. In — in Jared’s bed, that Jared so kindly and selflessly gave up for Richard, and —

“Fuck,” he says again, a little louder this time. Almost as if in response, Jared yelps.

Richard shoves himself the rest of the way upward, propels himself out of bed and into the living room. Jared left the lamp on, and even with the sleep mask covering them Richard can see the way Jared’s eyes are screwed shut, the way his forehead wrinkles. He can hear Jared whimper, and again.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Hey, uh, buddy.”

Jared’s whole body stiffens, then goes almost disturbingly limp.

Gingerly, Richard lowers himself on to the edge of the sofa bed.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Jared. If you — uh — we can. Swap. You can have your bed back, if you want.”

Jared says something, as if in response, but Richard can’t catch it: it’s too quiet, too garbled, maybe not even English. Whatever he says, though, it doesn’t sound happy.

“Jared,” Richard tries again. “If you —”

He reaches out and puts a hand on Jared’s shoulder. It’s just a touch, feather-light, but it’s enough that he can feel the heat of Jared’s skin through his shirt. Jared lets out another noise, lower, almost crooning.

“Okay,” Richard whispers, “okay.” He rubs at Jared’s shoulder through his t-shirt. Jared’s whole face scrunches up and then relaxes, and Richard keeps rubbing gently.

He feels — dumb, really dumb. This is — inappropriate, probably, and weird, definitely, but what part of this entire situation isn’t weird? What part of Richard’s entire life isn’t weird, lately?

The motion of his own hand on Jared’s arm is starting to soothe Richard, too, the repetitive movement becoming reflex as the warmth of Jared’s body seeps up through his shirt and into Richard’s fingers.

Jared breathes out a sound that might, almost, be Richard’s name, and Richard lets his eyes drift shut.

—

He’s not used to Jared’s condo. It’s — the light in the morning filters in at all different angles from his room at the hostel, even if you don’t take into account the fact that he’s sleeping much lower to the ground, and there wasn’t even enough room in his bed there to really fit two people, so —

Wait.

Wait.

It’s like he’s fully conscious all of a sudden, awake in an instant in a way he isn’t normally. But there’s no question that he’s on the sofa bed, and there’s no question that he’s tucked up against Jared, that it’s Jared’s breath on the back of his neck. Jared’s feet tangled up with his.

Jared’s hand clutching one of Richard’s own, pressed against Richard’s heart.

He remembers — he remembers coming out here, sort of. He remembers the sounds Jared was making, the painful-looking contortions of his face. He remembers touching him, and —

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He definitely, definitely doesn’t remember laying down.

He can feel Jared shift just slightly, feel a hitch in Jared’s breathing that — Richard knows he’s awake.

Richard squeezes his eyes shut. He should — he should get up, should pull away, and he’s mentally rehearsing his apology when Jared murmurs sleepily and nuzzles closer.

His breath is so warm, his nose digging into the back of Richard’s neck in a way that must be uncomfortable but is somehow impossibly endearing.

This is — fuck. Richard needs to do something, needs to say something, needs to — This is so. Inappropriate. He should stop Jared, stop him before this goes too far, before he does something that —

He whispers Jared’s name.

Behind him, Jared stills.

Richard’s fingers tighten where they’re wrapped around Jared’s, and after a moment he feels an answering squeeze.

It’s — enough. It emboldens him, just a little, just enough for him to shift in Jared’s grasp. He turns toward him. Their knees knock against each other, then settle.

Richard’s eyes blink open and Jared’s are there to meet them, the sleep mask tugged up onto his forehead in the night.

There’s a hint of a smile on Jared’s face, Richard thinks. It’s — they’re so close. It’s hard to tell.

“Can —” Richard clears his throat, tries again. “Can I —”

Jared blinks, rapidly. “Oh Richard,” he says, and he sounds almost — sad? Why would he sound sad? “You can do anything,” he says, and that doesn’t sound sad at all. It sounds like a promise.

Richard’s lips quirk into a desperate grin. He feels — everything is languid, slow, the sunlight dappled through the curtains and the faintest hint of birdsong, but Richard’s heart feels like it’s going a million miles an hour.

“Can I —” he says again, and he thinks, kiss you, kiss you, can I kiss you, but he can’t seem to get the words out.

Jared finds Richard’s hands where they’re trapped between them, wraps Richard’s fingers in his own.

“Please,” he whispers. He tilts his chin up and his lips part, just slightly.

Richard shifts in until they’re, impossibly, even closer together. He tries to keep his eyes open, means to, but Jared’s eyes on his are just so — intense, so blue and so — so real. Richard’s eyes slip shut just as his lips, trembling, brush across Jared’s.

“Oh,” Jared breathes out, and Richard kisses him again. Harder this time, firmer, he — he can’t — he has to —

“Richard,” Jared says, and it’s — it sounds shocked, almost, but not like a protest. It doesn’t sound a thing like no, or like stop, and when Jared says it again Richard knows it means keep going.

He’s not sure when the one of Jared’s hands not clutching at Richard’s fingers made its way into Richard’s hair; he’s not sure when his knee slotted between Jared’s.

“Oh, God,” he says finally, when his spare hand has shoved up the back of Jared’s shirt, when Jared’s ankle has hooked around his and pulled him in even closer.

“God,” he says again, and pulls away, just enough. “I — I know I have terrible morning breath. I’m so sorry.”

“Richard,” Jared says, and he sounds — disbelieving? “Really. I don’t mind.”

“O- oh,” Richard stutters, stammers out a laugh to match. “Are you —”

“Kiss me again,” Jared says, breathless, and Richard does.


End file.
